


Breaking the World

by astrokath



Category: KAY Guy Gavriel - Works, Ysabel - Guy Gavriel Kay
Genre: 600BC, Backstory, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Language Barrier, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Pre-Canon, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:24:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 600BC.  A Greek expedition meets with mixed luck on its voyage, while a Celtic tribe awaits a marriage that promises a great and prosperous future. This is a world only lightly touched by the gods, and their power to wreak devastation pales beside that of mortal human hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mamculuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamculuna/gifts).



_The sun does not shine, not here._

_The light is green and filtered, falling from a thousand different softened angles, through leaves of oak, beech, ash and a solitary elm. The trees are tall and timeless, twisted into shapes all their own, lines that speak of patterns beyond a mortal's understanding. Even the saplings hold more of a sense of strength and age than they rightly should: reaching up in silent, effortless growth towards the light, the places where each has taken root, months or years or aeons past, preternaturally perfect._

_Beneath the trees, a richer green lines the ground: the bright moss adorning the boulders at the water's edge, interspersed with fronds of bracken. Tight, potent growth, unfurling like the desires of a heart newly awakened to womanhood. And, beside the moss-covered rocks, beneath the sheltering canopy of the leaves and the ferns that give shape and definition to the water's curve, lie the dark waters of the Goddess' pool._

_It draws the eye, this pool. Shadowed, still, it lies untouched by the dry winds that sweep down from the north, the racing breath of the land that sets the trees whispering, even here in the heart of the forest. If it were autumn, you could watch the wind moving past you, trailing leaves of brown and gold in its wake...but even during such days as those, nothing mars the pool of the Goddess, except by the will of the Goddess herself. Today, in the springtime of the year, the woman making her way ever closer to the pool can see a faint scattering of bluebells in the distance._

_Not here, though. Never here. It is a sacred place, and only lightly touched by the passage of time. Daughter of a chieftain, gifted with wisdom and understanding in equal measure to the beauty and grace that she has only recently grown into, she knows the truth of its nature. It's why she's here._

_More with reverence than trepidation she pauses, a step from the water's edge. Such a simple thing to do. Drink of the water, and return with a cup for her husband-to-be. The cup will be blessed by the druid – surely an unnecessary deed, for water such as this – and then she will carry the cup to the warrior of her choice. There is no doubt in her mind who she will choose; other men pale beside the bright spirit who promises to match her strength for strength. She will be the goddess to his god and their shared majesty will enrich the tribes they will one day lead, with greatness enough for half a hundred lifetimes. The druid has promised her this. Changes are coming, but the Segobrigae will never vanish from this world, not now._

_She takes another step, and kneels beside the pool. Down, down the water goes. The pool is unlined by the leaf litter that lies cool beneath her toes and knees; the ground beneath the water simply fades away into shadowed mystery. It's difficult to put any kind of colour to it; it defies such description, just as it defies reflection. In spite of its stillness, and her hopes, she sees nothing of herself upon its surface. She reaches down, dips the golden cup into the waters, breaching the divide between this world and the world of gods and dreams. Ripples dance away from her wrist, in growing circles that seem reluctant to diminish, as if they would echo through all the times and ages of the world, all the silent waters of the heart. And then, she feels it, feels the touch of the Goddess within her, a stirring thrumming, as fresh and eternal as the waters of the pool._

_She lifts the cup, drinks from it, just as the druid had instructed her. It is cool in her mouth, and tastes no different from any other cup of water. She's not sure if that's what she expected or not, but it doesn't disappoint her. The eyes of the goddess are upon her, looking back out at her from within the golden chalice in her hands, framed by a face that is no longer entirely her own. She lowers the cup back to the water, fills it once again, then rises and leaves the sacred glade. The sun falls upon her as she passes the bluebells, dancing motes of light that leave her skin golden and dappled, and her hair a tumbling mass of live flame._

_Bearing a golden cup filled with forest water in her hands, she leaves the realm of the goddess and the god in silence. There will be sacrifices made to each of them, later, and to the other, lesser gods._

_There will be fires burning then, too._

* * *

Euxenus of Phocaea hadn't believed a word of what the Cumaean Sibyl had told them.

You didn't need the gods whispering secrets in your ears, or unveiling visions in your mind, to make a few educated guesses in obscure enough language to convince the gullible. If you were making a long voyage this early in the year, any fool could predict a string of disasters.

Surprisingly, her warnings hadn't been half as bad as either he or his brother had expected. All the same, it wouldn't have done for her to declare _too_ much bad luck ahead for them. They might have been tempted to cut their losses and stay, if she had. Three ships of traders – colonists, really, given the presence of the women, or refugees if you were in a less than charitable mood – might be welcomed as visitors, for a while, but the welcome would fail fast if they remained for very much longer than they intended. Fortunately for all, or at least for those who believed in such things, the Sybil had predicted enough profit and success to counter the predictable mishaps, and advised them to call in at the nearby island of Pithecusae before anywhere else. That would have had nothing at all to do with the trade links between the island and the mainland coast, or favours owing between the two communities, and the highly prized purple dyes within the holds of his brother Protis' ships; oh no, nothing to do with any of that at all.

Protis, pleased enough by the Sibyl's predictions, had shrugged off Euxenus' concerns as they'd emerged from the unsettling angles of her grotto. The island was on their planned route in any case, and everywhere had _something_ that could be bought or found or otherwise acquired, then sold for profit elsewhere. Before they left, he made a second, sizeable offering in each of the several temples that lined Cumae's hill, almost equalling the ones he'd made before the wild-eyed woman had spoken, saying they'd soon earn enough to recoup it if she was right. And as for her parting words, the ones that Euxenus had been sure had been aimed more at him than his brother, regardless of who was the elder, captain of his ship and the leader of their expedition...why, they'd only been so much nonsense, even less believable than all the rest.

          _Thrice the waters of your lives entwined and spilled.  
          You will thirst, and thirst, and thirst, and drinking, drink your fill._

* * *

They'd had smooth seas the day they'd left Cumae, with a soft breeze at their backs that carried the lingering sulphurous scent of the Phlegraean Fields alongside them. The welcome at Pithecusae had been everything a trading voyage could have wished for: hot food, good wine, music and wonderfully unfamiliar faces that they hadn't already spent months in close company with.

It was only when they'd left Pithecusae behind them that the problems started. The first mishap occurred during the night after their departure, with a fight on deck that left three of their water-barrels broken. Earlier on in their voyage, it might have been more of a worry, but they'd already survived the longest stretches out on open water that their voyage would demand of them. The next few weeks would be spent hugging the coast, until they were far enough north to strike out for one of the larger, more distant islands, discovered on a previous voyage. Until then, replenishing their supplies could be managed easily enough, and although the deepwater crossing to the next island they planned to visit would take several days, their supplies were ample enough. Earlier captains had reported the island a suitable site for a colony, but without the support of local peoples to trade with, it would require a larger undertaking than their own. It would, however, be a safe place to pause on their way, to hunt and forage and make minor repairs, and to allow the oarsmen and passengers to rest. Until then, there were fresh water streams and rivers aplenty to be found, whenever they needed them.

Euxenus himself hadn't been greatly bothered by the loss of the water barrels either, one or three or thirty. None of the other men of the expedition had heard the details of the Sibyl's words – they'd been making the most of the warm natural springs at the foot of the hill – but they'd certainly heard his mockery of the filthy soothsayer later that day, and some had even grumbled about the ill-luck he'd bring down on them. Protis took the gods and their servants seriously – what captain could afford not to? – and, more than likely, the whole thing had been a jest on his brother's part to teach Euxenus respect. Easy enough to bribe two of the oarsmen into a mock dispute. The barrels in question had been some of the older ones anyway, probably ones that had already run dry, re-filled with sea-water for effect.

Protis had denied it, of course, but his eyes had been bright with laughter. Beautiful Anaxo hadn't held back; she'd laughed enough for them all, then called on her daughter to join her in singing them all a song before they all retired to bed. Euxenus had heard that song repeated in his memory all through the long, wet hours of his night watch, the harmonies made by his brother's wife and daughter a siren-song that would have torn him easily from his post, had his brother not already been with them below. Beautiful dark-haired Anaxo, as round bellied and full as the ship that carried her. The ships and their cargo might have belonged to Protis, tall and proud, and the woman, too. But the child to come? The child, _that_ child, was surely his.

 

* * *

 

Storms found them, a half-day's voyage south east of safe harbour on the island, driven by a cold wind from the north. Black, heaving waters, thick with the anger of the gods, that shattered the second-largest of their three ships into flinders. The smallest ship was never seen again, not even as wreckage; Poseidon had swallowed it whole. Euxenus had raged against the gods, against the sea and the elements, had fought with Protis to keep the ship afloat. One of the wealthier passengers had almost been washed over the side; he'd reacted fast enough to save her, not even a second too soon, but had been helpless to do anything for the two men she'd been with at the time. When the seas had calmed enough to allow some of the oarsmen to row once more, they'd limped towards the coast, working in shifts to bridge the gap between the inhospitable seas and the alien shore. The Sibyl hadn't predicted the storms, nor the loss of the greater part of their trade goods. He cursed her, too.

They made land still within the tail end of the weather, with grey water sheeting down almost as heavily as the spray kicked up by the surf. He was first off the ship and into the water when the hull crunched into the stony sand, bearing a heavy hawser. Oars were stowed while he struggled through to the shallows and onto the strand, then the men joined him along its length one by one. Together, they hauled their ship well clear of the water, so as to better be able to make their repairs. There was no telling what the tide was doing until nightfall came or the sun showed its face; they'd lost all sense of time in the wet gloom of the weather, and it might be any hour of the middle of the day. After that, all that was to be done was to carry on as well as they could: tallying up the losses, human and otherwise; figuring out which repairs were the most urgent, and what resources they had left with which to make them; fetching water, eating, cleaning, and tending to the other necessities of staying alive. The women worked as hard as the men; harder, in some surprising cases. Aristarche, the woman whose life he'd saved during the storm, had surely never dug a trench in her life; but, having stared her death in the face, there was now no essential task that she was unwilling to put her hands to.

Euxenus had been helping show her how to make more effective use of her shovel when the cry rang out from the group of women working beneath a hastily strung canvas a little further off. He looked up, they both did, to see Anaxo doubled over in pain. It was too soon, far too soon.

As it turned out, he was wrong, about that.

By then, it was already too late.

Afterwards, when their last hopes had trickled away, redly, into the wet sand, he'd joined his brother on the shoreline, staring bleakly out at the grey sea. Aristarche followed him partway before necessity had returned her, weeping, to oversee the digging of yet another trench.

_Thrice the waters of your lives entwined and spilled..._

Euxenus of Phocaea _hadn't_ believed a word of what the Cumaean Sibyl had told him. Now though... now, with salt spray riming the beard that he hadn't had a chance to shave, and salt tears falling, an unseen offering to the dead.... Now, he wasn't quite so sure.

 

* * *

 

The following weeks were bleak, in every sense possible. Protis was lost in his grief, barely able to look at the daughter that was all he had of Anaxo left to him. Euxenus, having no space in which to express his own sorrow, had buried it deep beneath the waves, trusting that he'd be better able to deal with it when the tides inevitably turned, and washed it back to his feet. He had no right to such emotions, not like Protis did; they felt almost as much of a theft as everything else that had come before.

Slowly, surely, the landscape changed. They left the distant mountains behind in favour of softer forested hills, gentler weather, and a cold, dry wind that no longer carried storms upon its breath. Stores dwindled; more repairs were required, then made.

And then came the morning when everything changed.

They'd put in at a cove, fed by a tumbling freshwater stream, and protected from the heavier seas by two promontories. There was game aplenty in the forests that lined the hills, good, straight trees that could be felled for ship-building, and, here and there in the distance, grey, twisting spirals of smoke. They'd seen such signs of human communities several times over the preceding few days, but the coastline hadn't favoured any landings until now. There was no question of whether or not to send out a scouting party – such contacts were the prime purpose of their voyage – only of whether the men should leave the following morning, or some time later. Euxenus was arguing for the former when the first warrior stepped out from the shadowed cover of the trees.

He was tall, taller than Protis, which meant that he positively dwarfed Euxenus. His hair was a ruddy gold, his skin sun-darkened, his hands large and dexterous on the handle of his bladed axe – though there was dirt and blood caked beneath the uneven nails, Euxenus would later note. Brighter gold ringed the upper part of his right arm; he wore a vest of hide above a woven tunic and leggings, and his sandals were laced in an unfamiliar style. Three more men followed him out of the forest, similar in look and mien and dress, but, unlike the first, they initially made no further approach beyond merely letting themselves be seen.

Letting themselves be seen. That, it turned out, was what the Phocaeans had inadvertently done. They weren't the first foreigners who'd visited these lands, but the two peoples shared little knowledge of each others' tongues, and so the morning was spent in a series of polite gestures and simple phrases, moving slowly but inexorably closer to mutual understanding. Listening more than he spoke, Euxenus learned that their visitor's name was Typentus of the Segobrigae, and that their ship had been tracked from the shore for the last four days and nights. He _thought_ Protis had managed to convey their own purpose well enough – to seek out people such as Typentus, to trade, and eventually to set up a community of their own. The Segobrigae had no wealth in coins, and little civilised knowledge – the letters his brother had scratched into the sand had visibly perplexed the man – but they had metal, furs, and salt in quantity, knowledge of the land and numerous trade links further afield. It was a time of peace and plenty for the Segobrigae, and they considered themselves prosperous.

Noon found all four of the newcomers sitting amongst the Phocaean group, sharing wine and food and poorly understood pleasantries. Some of the Phocaean trade goods had impressed the local warriors greatly – others, less so – but Protis had been certain that everything they'd brought could be traded at a profit eventually. Even if the Segobrigae had shown no thirst for wine or olives or dyes or the other luxuries of home, the mere knowledge alone of the tribes augured profit enough to come. If – _if_ – they were truly as friendly as they wished to appear. By mid-afternoon, there was no mistaking the offer that Typentus was making: two of his men to stay behind with the ship; two of Protis' to return with him to the Segobrigae, to be welcomed and feasted.

Euxenus was cynic enough to see through to the heart of it. Two men to stay behind and _watch_. To call down the warriors they _hadn't_ yet seen, if the Phocaeans somehow offended, or perhaps to plunder the ship regardless, while its captain was absent. Protis had seen the risk then, too, and finally agreed that it would be Euxenus that left, him that stayed behind. If Euxenus returned, if nothing else went awry, all well and good. If not, someone would have to decide when and if to move on. All of that aside, it was still better this way, Euxenus thought – without the excuse of the sea to hold his attention, Protis might finally remember that he still had a daughter left to him.

They embraced, Euxenus promising his return...and wondering if he'd ever see his brother again.

 

* * *

 

He followed in the footsteps of his guide, his eyes downcast as he negotiated the awkward, unfamiliar terrain. One forest should have been no different from any other and he'd always prided himself on his ability to say where he was, and where he'd been...but this forest was simply too unlike the woods of his home. The straight boughs and twisted roots ought to have made it _more_ memorable to a stranger, not less, but before he'd walked an hour, he already found himself uncertain of whether he could ever find the ship's landing again. The realisation came as an unwelcome surprise. To his shame, he'd stumbled more than once, his legs protesting a surface that didn't rise and fall beneath his feet like the deck of the ship, and his eyes missing his footing in the failing light. Typentus had laughed, the second time, and hauled him upright again with ease. The man was built like a golden godling, at ease with himself in the dark and claustrophobic forest. There was mockery in that laugh, but perhaps also a sense of friendship to come, Euxenus thought.

While they walked, Typentus talked lyrically of his tribe. Boastful tales of great deeds, victories against their foes, beautiful women and miracles of the gods...or so Euxenus guessed. The feast would be magnificent, if he'd understood him aright, and far too rich a welcome for a single stranger. Typentus shook his head, smiling, when he eventually grasped the gist of what Euxenus had said, and slowly explained that the feast wasn't entirely for the Phocaean's benefit. There was a woman, apparently. A truly beautiful woman. _All_ the women of the Segobrigae were beautiful, of course, but this one, Gypta daughter of Nannus, was even more so than most. And she was soon to be wed. It was her wedding feast that Euxenus was privileged to attend, and hopefully Typentus' too. Euxenus raised an eyebrow and, deliberately misconstruing the number of weddings due to occur, asked if _Typentus'_ bride-to-be was as beautiful as the chieftain's daughter. Where language failed, tone and gesture were enough: Typentus laughed again, and for a long while after the growing shadows of the forest seemed to lose their grip.

Euxenus followed in the footsteps of his guide, wondering if he might one day find a wife among the Segobrigae as easily as he'd found a friend.

* * *

_She emerges from the shadows at the edge of the village: the night-time border where forest blends seamlessly with the trappings of civilisation, an uncertain line which no man would wish to overstep too far. Her hair is long, unbound, glinting with tongues of flame, and her throat is bedecked in gold. More gold adorns her arms and wrists and a stone of blue glints upon her hand, but they are as nothing to the riches of her body; tall and lithe, she moves with the grace of a deer – no, no prey beast was she – a huntress, a child of Artemis herself. Smoke and firelight weave around her, while curlicues of smoke and mist spiral away behind, marking her passage. The sight of her tenderly cradling a cup between her hands stirs something inside him, strangely, eddies of emotion that promise deeper currents rising hard beneath the surface of his heart. Seafarer that he is, he knows the danger of such things. Seafarer that he is, he knows that there is no denying the inevitability of a tide._

_Gypta. Was she to be Anaxo all over again? Another man's woman, and his heart already lost to her, instantly driving all thoughts of others from his mind? And yet... the complex betrayals of his past would be simpler, here. This woman, this spirit of living flame, had her match in Typentus already. His desire for her might be almost overwhelming, here and now, but it would surely ebb with time. It would be long weeks before she might even begin to see his own worth, longer still before he might hope for more than that, a seduction which would surely bring jealous ruination on his people if it were discovered. And why would she even look at him at all, when the man she'd share her future with stood tall and gleaming in the light of the fires?_

_He tries not to hate Typentus for that._

_She circles the gathered men almost teasingly, beginning close to where Typentus stands. There seem to be messages passed in the speed of her passage, signs of the chieftain's favour offered in a lingering glance or a low, murmured word. But the cup in her hand never wavers. Euxenus tears his eyes away from her, and glances over at Typentus; the man exudes the certain, honest confidence that Gypta will return to him soon enough; he smiles indulgently at the crowds, at the futility of their presence in a dance that belongs to only two._

_And then Typentus frowns. At him._

_The pull of her is too strong to deny. Ignoring the warrior's displeasure, Euxenus looks up at Gypta, admiring the sheer presence of the woman. There is the slightest trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. He doesn't follow the meaning of her murmured words, but he hears the catch in her breathing, knows the moment when her game turns back, impossibly, upon her._

_A moment later, she raises an arm and offers him the cup she bears._

_Nannus voices a query, or perhaps a warning. To his daughter, or to Euxenus himself? Surely this is an impossible thing to be happening? Euxenus knows that he lacks the luxury of ignorance. She is meant to be Typentus' bride, a match that all expect and none would deny the right of. Typentus would become the Chieftain's heir, and the Segobrigae would grow in strength and wealth and honour. What does he bring, what can he offer? Change. Uncertainty. A future not yet trod. A future he craves with all the desperation of a drowning man._

_Gypta speaks again, and this time her meaning is clear, if not her words. Is he not a man? Does he not find her pleasing? Will he not receive what she offers, freely, with her own hand?_

_She holds the cup before him. This close, the lack of scent tells him it contains nothing more than water, in spite of the reverence with which she'd borne it through the crowds. Reflected fire dance around the cup's golden rim, across the surface of the water, warring with rippling circles that thrum in resonance like a heartbeat. She holds the cup before him, offering it, and herself, to him. A guest at her father's feast. A stranger from the sea._

_Euxenus takes it from her. Drinks, knowing as he does so that Gypta is a thirst that can never be quenched. Typentus, roaring, strikes the cup from his lips. It falls to the ground, ringing as it strikes a stone, spilling its contents in a tumbling rush. Gypta turns upon Typentus, angrily chiding him for his interference, pulling her hand free when he makes to tug her away. He has a blade in his hand, Euxenus sees; he sidesteps the warrior's strike with an easy speed that startles them all. Gypta's anger flares in response, and in haughty pride she faces the man down. Enraged, he draws the blade across his own flesh...and then he turns away. A dozen steps take him to the borders of the night. A dozen more, and the man is gone...for now._

_Euxenus doesn't doubt that he'll return._

          Thrice and thrice....

_The Sibyl's words echo through Euxenus' mind, and his mouth goes dry. He'd seen the choice made in the woman's eyes even before she'd offered the cup, and her life, into his hands. He knows, already, that he'd fight to keep her, that he'd pay any price. That no price, whatever it might cost him, would ever be too great._

_For her, he'd break the world itself._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Jan Levine for beta-reading this story for me. Any outstanding errors, textual or factual, are entirely my own. 
> 
> To my recipient - I do hope you like the story. It may not be what you expected to find written on your blank slate, but it's the story that came to me for the characters. I love the atmospheric sense of history that comes with the novel itself, and I know I've not done Kay's stylish prose the justice it deserves, but it was wonderful fun to try.
> 
> There's an unwritten frame around this story for any reader who finds the style and lack of dialogue disconcerting -- you can see it as a post- or mid-canon dream of Kim's or Ned's, their shared heritage affording them a greater insight into the events of the past than what we saw in Ned's POV imaginings in the text. It's there, if you want it. If not, just unread this whole paragraph. ;-)
> 
> A note on names: there are several names mentioned in the founding myths of Massalia. Ned uses two of them, and Phelan confirms that he and Ysabel were the same souls/people in question, but that they didn't go by those names. I've taken the liberty of using the alternative name for Phelan, and I've given the one Ned used for him to Phelan's OMC brother. Ysabel's name is mildly altered; her father's is as historically accurate as the records get, and Cadell's is straight from my imagination, and probably something offensive in some very obscure language, knowing my luck. Aristarche was one of the other original founders of Massalia, but her presence on the first expedition is a whim of my own. As far as the main characters go, hopefully it's clear enough who is who.
> 
> Cuma was already an established settlement by 600BC, and I'd encourage anyone to visit it if they get the chance, along with the ruins and baths at Baia and, if you get truly lucky, the underwater ruins of Porto Julius.


End file.
